


Caught Off Guard

by Xyriath



Category: Marvel (Comics), Winter Soldier (Comics)
Genre: F/M, PWP, Soviet Sex, These two need more smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-01
Updated: 2013-10-01
Packaged: 2017-12-28 04:19:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/987571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xyriath/pseuds/Xyriath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a reason she is their deadliest agent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Caught Off Guard

It had been a day full of training and sparring and other generally exhausting things, and the Winter Soldier was tired. As he fumbled with his keys and stepped into his room, he was only focused on getting himself clean and then perhaps bed.

That's his excuse for not paying as close attention as he should.

The kick nearly catches him square in the face, and, if he hadn't seen it at the last second and lifted his metal arm to block it, it likely would have left him with a broken jaw. Even so, it hits hard enough to bruise, and he's knocked off balance. Another swing, this time for his side, is knocked aside with more difficulty than his unprepared self would have liked to admit, and before he realizes where the leg that had just kicked at him had gone, it hooks itself around his ankle and sends him sprawling flat on his back. His head thuds against the rug, and before he can recover from the hit, a pair of thighs is straddling his waist and a sharp, cold object is suddenly at his throat.

The small blade, undoubtedly slipped out from under her sleeve or potentially from inside her belt—it doesn't matter, really—rests lightly against his jaw. He isn't stupid—he knows that one move, one nick, is enough to put him out with whatever might be coating it.

"I've won this round, comrade." The Russian drops softly from her lips, the lips that are curved up in the faintest of smiles. Though faint, however, the expression intimated absolute satisfaction, leaving him with absolutely no doubt as to what was at the forefront of her mind right then.

"So you have." He is caught between several feelings, all of them almost uncomfortable in their conflict. Pride is there, of course: the Black Widow has learned so very well from him, and the fact that it had only taken her moments to incapacitate him had proven that she was even more capable than he realized. There's a mild bit of frustration and irritation, too: not with her, not necessarily, but with himself for his incompetence. And then there is the fact that a skilled, deadly, beautiful, brilliant woman was straddling him, which despite his best efforts proved to be somewhat distracting.

She leans back, shaking the tumble of red curls out of her face, her smirk widening. She pauses a moment, eyes lingering on his face, then on her knife, before she withdraws it.

"What was that you said last week?" she asks, voice deceptively casual as she sheathes her weapon. "About remaining alert, not allowing yourself to be caught off-guard…"

It's true; it also isn't the first time they have sparred unexpectedly like this, not the first time she has tried to surprise him (or him, her). It is, however, the first time she has won so thoroughly, and with another surge of pride, he allows himself a smile, eyes still fixed on her. He shouldn't be watching her like this. The Black Widow, a weapon made to serve the Motherland, just as he was. But still, there is something about her that just—

He shoves that thought away. "You did well." She raises an eyebrow, and he makes to push himself up with his left arm. A subtle change in her expression, however, and she has reached out to place two fingers on his chest. Not with enough pressure to keep him there if he were to make an effort to sit up, but he freezes as if they were knives.

Their eyes lock, and it's only a moment before he realizes that his right hand has gone to her waist, cupping it, thumb resting gently on her abdomen. He could excuse it as an attempt to push her off, however gently, but they both know that isn't the case, so he doesn't even try.

She doesn't reply, says absolutely nothing. But her hand withdraws the slightest amount. She traces the backs of her fingers up his chest and to his shoulder, her eyes not leaving her hand, his eyes not leaving her face.

Her fingers reach his neck, and he knows that there are more than a dozen ways she could kill him, right now. He's taught her some; she knows plenty more. His breath catches slightly, but it isn't in fear.

It's only the gentlest of touches, as she brushes a stray lock of hair out of his face, but her expression is enough. Propping himself up with one arm and sliding the other up her back, he pushes her gently down for a kiss.

Their lips meet briefly, and she leans into it—though not more than him, who, after a few moments breaks it. He can see the look in her eyes, thrill and desire and uncertainty—they shouldn't be doing this—but damned if he cared¬¬—and he leans in again with a murmured, almost desperate "Natalya" against her lips.

She presses them together again, and this time he slides his tongue between them, briefly tangling them together. He kisses her as deeply as he's imagined himself doing for—well, longer than he should probably admit. He finds her bottom lip with his teeth and nips at it gently. For her part, she returns the kiss with enough enthusiasm to completely dissuade his worry that she might not especially return his affection.

She slides down, settling on his hips instead of his waist, and he can feel himself getting hard against the cloth of his pants. He's done this before, when on missions and—and maybe other times, too, that he couldn't quite recall, but never like this, not with someone like her.

His hand finds the zipper of her bodysuit and slides it down her back. She gives her shoulders a wiggle, helping him help her out of it. He slides it down to her hips and she pulls off her bra, neither of them breaking the kiss until they have to. When they do, it takes Natalya only moments to pull off his shirt, and as she leans down so that he can slide the suit off of her thighs, his lips find the side of her neck and kiss down to her collarbone.

She makes a happy hum-sigh as he traces his tongue down the front of her chest, bringing a hand to cup the underside of her breast and lift it, tracing his tongue down the curve and using it to circle her nipple.

He smirks slightly at the moan that escapes from her mouth, and at that, she buries her fingers in his hair and yanks on it. When he pulls back slightly, her firm fingers guide his head to her second breast. His mouth takes it obligingly, nibbling gently and sucking and licking as his hand continued to stroke the other.

He could hear her take a deep, sharp breath, and in a moment her fingers were on his waistband, tugging his pants off his hips. He kisses his way up her chest and neck, pressing his lips to hers again and cupping her face as he leans forward. Before he closes his eyes he can see the bed, right there, feet to his left, but neither of them wants to stop.

He can feel her on top of him as he kicks the last of the pants off to the side, hot and wet and ready, and he splays his hand across her abdomen. He lowers it after a moment, sliding it down to bury his thumb in her curls and rub it against her clit. Natalya gasps and arches her back, and he takes a moment to tilt his head back and admire the stunning image she makes, perfect curves and brilliant red hair and smooth skin. And then she catches her breath, is eyeing him with a slight smirk that brings back the illicit thrill, something that had been sitting there, threatening to spill over, for weeks and, now, finally has.

She takes his wrist and tugs it away from her, her smirk widening. Letting go, she lifts herself slightly, taking his cock and sinking onto it in one long, slow movement.

He groans softly, hands going to grip her thighs. After the slight jump that is probably due to his arm, he can hear a soft chuckle from above him, and she retaliates by gripping his shoulders, nails digging in just enough to hurt but not so hard that it doesn't feel amazing. Bending down, she bites lightly at his lip before kissing him fiercely. He can feel her breasts pressing against his chest as she slides back up, then down again. He groans into her mouth again, bucking his hips upward into that amazing, tight heat. It's not just as good as he had imagined—it's better, and even though he has a brief moment of wondering exactly how this had happened, he shoves it away, focused on enjoying it as much as he can.

And then she begins to move.

It's slow at first, not enough to be a rhythm, even, and he can see—feel—her muscles tensing along with his own, their breaths growing heavier.

And then she straightens, a slight curve to her back as she tilts her head back, eyes closed, and he can't take his own off of her. Her hips roll forward as he thrusts up, and she's setting the pace, steady and demanding as she grinds down against him as well.

He slides his hands up her thighs as they tense and flex, thumbs brushing against her abdomen before his hands slide up her back, trying to map every inch of her, familiarize himself with every small movement and tension when she is this gloriously alive, vibrant and beautiful.

It isn't until she opens her eyes and looks down at him, face flushed and out of breath, smirk gone but a much more honest expression of desire coloring her face, that he realized he has groaned her name again. She pauses for just a moment to lean down and kiss him deeply before resuming, pulling another groan from his lips as the pleasure continues to build. Her hands move from his shoulders to his arms, and he lifts one to cup the back of her head as they continue to kiss, lips meeting and then receding, only to come together again with an eagerness that he never knew she had.

When she breaks the kiss, she doesn't pull back, and he can feel her breath growing unsteady. He knows she's close; so is he, for that matter. He lets go, sliding his hand between them and reaching for her clit again with his thumb.

The noise she makes is startled, though in no way displeased, and she straightens again with a gasp. He can feel the shudder running through her body and she lets out another soft cry. She pauses, tightens, for just a moment, and the sight of her, eyes closed, cheeks flushed with pleasure, damp strands of hair framing her face, is almost enough to push him over the edge as well. His hips buck up almost involuntarily, and she seems to understand; it only takes a few more rolls of her hips, ones that leave her gasping even more, to bring him to climax as he grips her waist and tilts his head back.

The two of them remain there for a short while, chests heaving, legs perhaps shaking ever so slightly. Then Natalya is sliding back and off of him. For a moment he thinks she is going to leave. The thought bothers him on a level that he doesn't quite understand, but she doesn't. Instead, she lets out a satisfied hum that turns into a small laugh and leans down, resting her chin on his chest and looking up at him, a mischievous smile playing at her lips.

"I think I like it when you surprise me," he murmurs, returning the smile. "Don't think it will be this easy next time though."

"Oh, I sincerely doubt it." Her voice is husky with sex and suppressed laughter, and after a moment, she straightens. He takes her offered arm and tugs himself up, and moments later, her fingers are playing down his chest, her lips teasingly close to his ear.

"We should get somewhere more comfortable, Comrade," she whispers, tugging him towards the bed. "It's bound to be a long evening."


End file.
